


the things we keep bottled up

by MundyMorn



Category: Disney - All Media Types, Epic Mickey (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Oswald has regrets and didn't think this through, Regrets, mickey messed up so much, sibling angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-14
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2020-10-18 16:48:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20642432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MundyMorn/pseuds/MundyMorn
Summary: AU. Gus isn't there when Mickey reveals he was responsible for the Thinner Disaster, and Oswald well and truly snaps. Shoved and imprisoned in a giant bottle just like his accidental creation, Mickey will have to work things out with Oswald in an even more tenuous situation.





	1. Mousetrapped

**Author's Note:**

> ... I hope I can continue this, but bear with me - I'm very busy and this was spontaneous.

Oswald looked like he was going to implode.

Mickey didn’t bother fighting off the stomach-dropping, squirming feeling of guilt inside. He shouldn’t be reacting to Oswald blowing his top – and yet he couldn’t help but cringe. Throughout this trek, he'd been up to his black-button nose in trouble and task alike, he'd only had fleeting seconds of reprieve to think about what he'd done. And even then, he'd only get half through through a wince before Gus or someone else was yanking him back into the fray.

But the check list was nearby the ugly, oh-so scraped bottom. There had been very little else to do and Mickey had started to wonder if taking the deed to his inky grave was kinder...then Oswald started talking. Even holding up a hand to stop him, and apologise, looking as sheepish as someone with the rabbit's temperament could.

And. Well.

Mickey broke.

One he got past the 'one time I found this workshop' there was no hope for him.

He'd told him everything. Oswald had been ready to give him a small, shred of a chance and Mickey's mouth just seemed to spill out every grisly detail. And throughout it all, Mickey couldn't tear his eyes away from a rusty xylophone coloured in red,white and black paint nearby. But he still saw Oswald's face change to reproach at being interrupted the one time he was trying to be_ polite_, then his body going still and his blinking ceasing altogether when it registered to him that the 'table' Mickey had seen was the Wasteland, then the look of pure horror when the_ bottle_ was mentioned...

That's when Mickey closed his eyes and clutched his shoulder, head bent, shoulders rising up by his chin. 

The rabbit stamped his foot down once, twice, “I knew it! I knew you – You took my life **and**_ destroyed my home!”_

He didn't mean to do any of it and yet he did. How was he supposed to know? A little table-top of houses, it looked like a board game. He'd half believed the whole incident, back when, had been a nightmare. Mickey sank further into himself. Every word burned into him. 

“I’m sorry.” . He couldn't _begin_ to beg for forgiveness. All those years a character and he was falling short in a performance. Oswald deserved to be infuriated. He felt so..._heavy._

Didn’t make the punch any less surprising.

Mickey spun on his heel. The impact literally sent him reeling, the sting going right to his eyeballs. He collapsed promptly against the junk around them, all bearing his sickly grin. It was like being surrounded by a bunch of mirrors, and Mickey found each glance at his likeness making him want to curl up and vanish.

**“That’s it!”**

Oswald’s foot slammed down directly by his ear. Micky turned awkwardly on the junk pile, trying to get a footing – as much as he probably deserved the royal whooping that was coming, self-preservation won over. Wide-eyed, he turned to try and scramble.

“Oh no ya don’t! You’re not worming your way out of this one!”

The rabbit yanked him back by the ear.

Micky yelped.

"Oswald _wait-"_

It was the first time the abrasive fellow had put his hands on him and that in itself was jarring. The momentum sent Mickey stumbling backwards, arms swinging with far too much humour, considering the situation.

Two hands, a good push, and Micky was off the ledge.

The air whistled gently by his big old ears, the abruptness making his brain blissfully blank. He couldn't drag his thoughts together, instead focusing on how Oswald's silhouette shrank as he plummeted. He half expected to hear a soft high pitched sound effect. His stomach flipped, and his heart, which he'd never gave much thought to his entire life, was thrumming like some alien object lodged in his body rather than a part of him. 

He hit something peculiar.

His legs and head were forced into his body.

And he hits something hard, cold, and twanging. 

The mouse cringed, his arm trapped under the rest of him and his head spinning. He forced open an eye and saw warped reflections in a see-through surface...glass.

He'd fallen right into the thin opening of a bottle. He’s lucky it didn’t take his head off.

And yes, the impact even for a Toon was about as much as you can expect – it winded him and he could only puff out a single breath.

Mickey laid in the green-glass bottle, trying to pull himself together. Yup. He deserved that one. He had no idea how he as going to recover from this. Well, not the fall, he'd survived worse but - with _Oswald_. Where did they go from here? How did he fix things? He'd be lucky if he even got close to talking to the rabbit again. What was the way...

The bottle moved. At first so innocuous, Mickey couldn't tell if he imagined it. His brow quirked and he waited. It happened again, with more oomph. 

Micky managed to lift his arm – and realized his brush was gone, dropped in the skirmish. He had a moment to gawk at himself, then pad frantically at his sides before the bottle tipped again, pushed some unseen force, and he cried out briefly as it finally toppled right over onto its side.

He bounced against the glass wall and grabbed his head to stop his eyes from jiggling in his head. _Yikes. _Reminded him of the giant props in that Nutcracker cartoon he'd starred in. 

Welp, at least now that its on its side, he can get to the opening and …

The distinctive sound of a cork being shoved into that opening made him freeze. And somehow, he already knew what he was going to be looking at when he turned his head.

Oswald was outside the bottle, now half-immersed in the damp boards and debris around them. From inside it was clear the glass darkened whatever was inside the bottle, obscuring the mouse even further.

It wasn’t a pleasant idea. Oswald strode around to the side of the bottle, with a cold yet utterly resolute expression on his face. He’d gone from enacting a steam blower to frigid in a second. Mickey realized with cold clarity that Oswald knew _exactly_ what he’d done, what he was_ doing._ And when he met his eye, all Mickey saw was pitiless contempt …and maybe some grim satisfaction.

....oh no.

The look on Mickey’s stricken face must’ve really been _something_ as Oswald grinned with about as much mirth as a reaper. He rapped his knuckles on the glass like a child poking a fish-tank.

“That oughta keep ya out of trouble, Mouse.”

“Oswald.” Mickey said, in a tone that sprinkled pleading, reproach, and caution all in one: don’t do this, I understand, this is a big mistake, this could go so wrong, I’m sorry.

But he didn't say any of it. Oswald placed his hands behind his back, lifted his nose and strode idly alongside the long bottle –

“Don’t look at me like that. This is **less** than you deserve. I coulda marched you down there and told everybody what you did – let the _Petes _get their hands on you. But now you’ll just have to live like everybody here does.”

And he faced him again, and that glower made Mickey want to vanish, “Just like **_I _**do. Let’s see how much fun ya have being _forgotten.”_

Mickey leaned against the glass, pressing his gloves right into the green, cold surface, feeling horridly numb. “Please don’t do this.”

His voice comes out way more subdued than he feels. Oswald's features twitched in dislike.

“In case you’ve gone selectively _blind_, Mouse, ‘s already done!** You** took my life, my home. Because of y**ou,** our friends got erased by the thinner! **I** shoulda done this the _second_ you showed your stupid mug on this mountain!” He leaned in and jabbed a finger against the glass with every word. Mickey leaned back. “Now you’ll get to feel what it’s like. Its only _fair.”_

With that he turned and stomped off again…this time_ away_ from the bottle. Mickey panicked. “Oswald! Wait, don’t go – please don’t leave me here!” Desperation made his already pitched voice go shrill. 

Gus wasn’t here. Nobody was. _Nobody knew he was here._ His heart was pounding.

He watched the rabbit stride off; hands again clutched behind his back.

“Funny. That’s what I said.”

Before he could call out again, Oswald was gone.

…

Mickey tried everything to get out.

His breath sounded far too loud in this dark green prison. 

First, he kicked at the cork. It gave maybe a few inches, but at that point, it was sealed in tight. He wasn’t going to push it out from the inside. Then, he tried his luck breaking the glass. For an old bottle, it was _way_ sturdier than it looked. He ended up with the shoulder-ache of the century ramming into it. Can toons dislocate their bones if they didn't have 'em?

He tried shoving the bottle from the bottom end to maybe hit it against something, break it _that_ way. But its initial tipping had lodged it in the other giant garbage pretty good.

Eventually, he sat down, drew his knees to his chest, and took a breather. C’mon, Mickey. Think. He propped his chin on his knee and tried to keep calm. Somebody would eventually find him. Gus would notice he was gone. He just had to wait.

Just gotta wait.

He wondered if Oswald had this same thought, all alone.

In the frantic escape attempts, he’d been distracted from what he’d done again. Mickey swallowed hard. Wasteland was full of sad sights, but he’d had enjoyable moments too. Helping Horace and Animatronic Goofy. Making friends with Gus. How could he have smiled all those times, knowing what he’d done to these Toons?

Mickey pulled on his ears, grimacing. The weight in his chest was churning like, like …

Small flakes of ink fluttered off his arms. The mouse watched them dissolve into the air and sniffed.

He buried his head in his knees and tried not to_ think._

…

Mickey had fallen asleep. He awoke to a thudding noise; round ears twitching faintly. The force of it made the bottle jolt and he sat up clumsily. He’d been having a lot of rude awakenings lately.

“Huh?”

“Didja really think I wouldn’t check if you were tryin’ to escape?”

Any sleepiness was gone in a flash and Mickey swivelled around abruptly. Oswald was back, and he’d shoved the only slightly loosened cork back in with a good kick. Not that it mattered: the suction meant it wasn’t going to come out either way. (Mickey had to open many a cork bottle at New Years’ Eve.)

“Uh.”

Oswald moved to the side of the bottle again, so they were face to face. Micky tried to get up, but the curve of the bottle's interior made him slip back onto his knees. “If ya don’t want me to push this thing into a _pit_ or somethin’, you’d better shut up and take your _medicine.”_

A loud _boom _nearby made Mickey start. Oswald had his hands on his hips, not at all perturbed. “Wh…what was – “

“The blot, in case you forgot.” Oh. It wasn’t far from where Mickey was, in fact –

Mickey angled his head against the glass, so he could get a glimpse of the haunting, squirming form of the blot in the jug up above. It could see him. It was like placing a wolf in one cage, a chicken in the other. It was surging against its own prison… towards his.

Grimacing, Mickey inched back from the bottle-wall, so he didn’t have to look.

“Seeing as you two already _know each-other_ so well,” Oswald drawled, “I’m sure you’ll make for good cell-mates, huh?”

Mickey couldn’t concoct any kind of argument. What was he supposed to say? That he didn’t deserve punishment, for ruining dozens of lives? Toons were _inert_ because of him. (He daren’t say dead, not even in his mind.)

But he had to admit, imprisonment by giant bottle was a really unorthodox way. "I woulda hoped for a jury."

"I would too, but then **you** happened."

Just desserts aside, something about this whole thing was off and wrong.

“… are you gonna take my heart?”

Oswald seemed genuinely taken aback by the question, eyes wide. He looked away with a brief huff.

He didn’t answer. Maybe, Mickey through with dull unease, he was still thinking it over.

Mickey’s insides squirmed in discomfort again, and he too averted his eyes. They both sat there quietly, air thick and gloomy. The mouse wrung his tail absently between his hands.

In the corner of his eye he saw Oswald regarding him with the usual reproachful seething, but there was almost something else in his expression, like he was contemplating. Mickey didn’t get to say goodbye, and if Oswald did decide to take his heart… if he didn’t relent, if he decided to leave him here forever, never tell, what would Minnie think? Goofy, Donald, everybody?

He clutched his tail all the tighter. 

“Don’t touch the cork.” Was all the rabbit added, blunt and final, before storming off again. Mickey sat back with a quiet _plunk_, hands flopping to his sides.

The blot’s muffled, distorted thudding continued on into the day.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They're both on edge.

You could say Mickey had an agreeable experience with most people. He’d never really been on the receiving end of _vitriol_ before - at least, nothing like the bile-in-the-throat loathing Oswald had. Even with Pete, what with their attuned character rivalry, hated him so much. And that was before Mickey had done anything directly…

Direct being dropping a giant bat of _acid_ on a magic world. Mickey’s knees were getting sore, and he wanted to lie down and drift off maybe, stall these inner turmoil, but something kept him from it.

_No one can get out of here without that heart._

In this glass, enclosed space, his heartbeat was a distracting drum. Ya know, when he accused Oswald of helping the Mad Doctor kidnap him, maybe he wasn’t _too_ far off. Mickey needed to stop ignoring his hunches.

Mickey drummed a finger along his arms and sighed again.

Seems he’d done a lot of things _indirectly._ How many folks have spilled stuff over a desk? Millions, probably. Granted, it was a magic-looking desk, but who’d have ever guessed it was an entire world, with living beings inhabiting it? And guessing that when you’re under the impression you’re dreaming…his mirror never went magic before. He didn’t understand any of it....

Yup, a small, resolute part of him was _defending _himself and for a moment he caught onto it like a balloon string about to drift out of reach. 

How was he supposed to k_now?_ Nobody else knew about Oswald, or the Wasteland, and none of the humans saw fit to mention the rabbit.

_(Throughout this line of thought his furrowed brow sank further and further into a full-out scowl.)_

“Y’know, this place has the effect on ya.”

Mickey nearly had a heart attack.

Oswald was some yards away, facing the skyline with his hands behind his back, a strange mirror of the contemplative pose he’d had when looking at Walt’s statue. Mickey wondered if he was thinking of him now, and he unfolded his legs from his chest and shakily stood up, careful not to slip on the curving glass.

“Whaddaya mean?” He began hesitantly. 

“You get lost in thought. Maybe it’s the location, or the amount of faces.” Mickey didn’t bother denying it, what else was he to do but sit and stew?

He wondered how long Oswald had been at it.

“Uh. I’m not much of a deep thinker.”

“_That’s_ for sure.” Something resembling a smile tugged as Oswald’ lip then, sardonic and snide, but it didn’t last. Mickey tried not to look miffed. 

“You’re actin’ like I did all this on purpose.”

“Who handles something that’s clearly _magic _so stupidly? What are ya, Dopey’s first cousin?”

Mickey balled his fists but didn’t argue further. Instead he breathed in and lifted his hands, although the rabbit was resolutely refusing to look his way,

“Why don’t we just _talk _about this?”

“What makes you think I wanna get philosophical with you?”

“Well you’re here, aren’t ya? So let’s get it all out. All the dirty laundry. Cards on the table.”

“Any more stock phrases you need to get off your chest, Junior?”

“About as much as _Copycat jokes_ on your end?”

“Those are facts, not jokes.”

“Do ya ever wonder if you took the whole resentment thing too far?!” Mickey threw his arms up, Oswald was now facing him and idly tapping his foot, about as huffy as a boat whistle. “I mean, even _before_ the Thinner Disaster. It’s not like you had _nothing_. You said so yourself, you’re the ruler here! You still had your wife and kids -”

“Yeah, a land that’s barely _existent _anymore, and a wife you must’ve realized isn’t_ around_ anymore.” Oswald stomped back to the bottle. Mickey deflated. 

“I didn’t _mean_ to.” He blurted, unable to keep his head from bowing, “I…”

“You tend to ‘_not know about’ _alotta the damage you do, Mouse.” Oswald said wryly. “I wonder what _else_ you’ve pulled off without knowin’ it.”

That was a morbid thought and it made Mickey’s chest go cold. It was hard to swallow. 

Maybe he ought to simmer down. He glanced toward several defunk TV sets submerged in grime and thought back to the children he’d seen huddling around the one he’d quickly set up at the base of the mountain. Only about a dozen. They were _everywhere_. And he got a distinct feeling that, even though he didn’t exactly see vast hordes all at once, the little groups he’d been running into in Ostown, Mean Street and beyond _weren’t _the same groups.

“...How many of ‘em are there, anyway?” He muttered.

“Four hundred and twenty.” Came the blase response to his rhetorical question. Mickey blinked wildly,

“What? Four - _four _-”

“Hundred. And twenty.” Oswald confirmed, flatly. But there was a smug quirk to his brow. “Boys, girls. All of ‘em look alike and all of ‘em love me, so I guess they must have been giving _you_ a hard time. Pete’s been trying to round them up but they always get out. They’re a handful but, I’m used to it.”

His mood had brightened, if faintly. 

Rubbing at his neck, Mickey said, “Heh...Uh, I mean, I don’t have any kids. I wouldn’t know. Most toons I know are Uncles or Aunts, cause for some reason-”

“I’m not _totally_ ignorant to what’s going on in the outside world, _Mouse_.” Oswald interjected, rolling his eyes,“Most of its garbage collects in here after all. But yeah, I heard. The old company’s a fan of _orphans_ isn’t it?”

Mickey winced. He was sure that was a jab.

“Your kids still have _you_.” But when Oswald averted his eyes and his face grew stonier, a very gross surge of spite rose up in Mickey’s chest. Oh yeah, he’d shut himself away, according to Gus. Who knows what those little guys felt…

Well, he already did, a lot of them were wandering around their mother’s house crying, while their dad became a recluse. That was his fault, too. Mickey’s heart sunk, and yet that brief spark of defiance came back to argue that even if he’d caused the disaster, he hadn’t _forced_ Oswald to abandon his kids…

Mickey rubbed the back of his neck again. Then he sat down and flopped against the glass, letting his ear and cheek mush against his head. Well, looks like he’d have plenty of time to mope.

Oswald chuckled somewhere off to the side and Mickey tried not to react. As much as he tried to fight it in his head, he _had_ messed up. And well, he’d lived long enough to know that just because you didn’t mean to do something, that didn’t make your screw up any less bad. His biggest problems in life paled so greatly compared to the goings-on here.

“I feel like I’ve been down here for years,” Mickey said.

...Not the best wording. Oswald’s slow, reproachful eyebrow quirk froze, like a buffering video.

Then he burst out laughing. Mickey jumped.

“Years!” He said between hollers, “_Years,_ he says! Ha!”

An offensive comment, granted, but Mickey inched away. Oswald had always been close to the surface during their chats, but this was tip-toeing into _unhinged. “_Uh...sure_. _Sorry. I mean. Obviously I don’t mean...Oswald?”

But the rabbit was doubled over, actually wiping a tear from his eye. He’d been so moody, Mickey hadn’t seen him act toon-like outside of...pulling off parts of his body.

Which he did - he popped off and ear, rolled it up, and used it to dab at his eye, “Oh man. My laugh-box wasn’t prepared for your _antics_, mouse.”

He must have saw Mickey’s wide-eyed look when he reattached his ear. “What? Mousetrap got your tongue?”

“No. But I don’t get why you faded from popularity in the first place, I mean. You got a lot of gimmicks. All I did was whistle at first.”

Oswald looked surprised, then quickly waved it off. “Flattery’s not going to save ya, _or_ your buttoned pants.”

Well. Mickey folded his arms. “Well, it’s not just _you_, a lot of the stuff in Wasteland, I just don’t _get _why it’s here.” Oswald looked miffed, so he added, “Or do ya have the mountain booked for existential thinking today?”

Oswald snorted unwillingly, a reaction not unlike him getting hooked on the TV Sets. Brought another joke to Mickey’s mind - _mom says it’s my turn with the isolation mountain._

But he doesn’t say that, because he’s sure Oswald would lose his temper again. If it’s one thing Mickey never really had, and wouldn’t ever have, it was a temper. 

“With all the cheesy junk with your name stamped on it, I forget most people actually find you _entertaining_.” Oswald said, with a tone that made sure Mickey knew he didn’t think it was warranted. Mickey was just happy to keep the rabbit talking, lest he be left with the Blot, it’s leery grin and constant thumping.

“Hey, _I_ get freaked out about the merchandise sometimes. You can bet I’d have nightmares hangin’ around here.” Mickey said, sitting back down, “And that’s not even considering the off-model things people put on T-Shirts unofficially.”

At that Oswald’s brow - or the ’widow’s peak’ of his head, slanted, “Oh yeah?”

“I wouldn’t mind it, it’s just the _eyes_…”

“Don’t get all jittery on me.”

“I’d take a scary shirt over the Blot.”

“I’d take a scary shirt of you over _you_.”

Mickey’s lips pursed. “You _have_ been. Technically.”

“Hey, I was just getting rid of the junk.” Oswald folder his arms and stuck up his nose, and Mick mirrored it without even thinking, tilting his head up even further just for good measure,

“Well you’re _welcome _for the impenetrable fortress. I’m all for recycling.” And as he saw Oswald opening his mouth, a big fat grin on his mug, Mickey threw in, “I should know, being recycled _myself!_”

Better to self depreciate than be dishonored. 

...

Oswald blinked stupidly, the insult having been ripped right out of his mouth. Mickey started giggling. He couldn’t help it. It was all nerves, really, bundled up in his shoulders and neck, and the panic of being stuck in this bottle coupled with all the churning emotions...well it was bound to overflow. 

A few more times, Oswald tried to splutter up a comeback, but kept getting thrown off by Mickey’s giggles, which were quickly turning into laughing fits. The mouse dropped against the glass, letting his body side, hands on his stomach, and Oswald’s lips twitched upward, as if gravity itself had inverted. 

Then he started snickering, too, shoulders shaking mildly, then his own near hysterical laughter prompted Mickey into another round of giggles, too, and the two of them just stood and laughed, unaware that through it all, the Blot’s incessant thudding had ceased, and through the web-like tendrils sprouting between it’s hands, whatever it used for eyes watched, and watched, and watched.


End file.
